Monday through Sunday
by Ashitaki
Summary: It took a week to make up his mind.


Monday mornings are waking up at the crack of dawn, having your warm feet that were recently nestled in cozy blankets hit the cold hardwood floor then stubbing your toes on books that lay precariously about, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

After your first cup, it's time to hit the showers. You groan as the heat pounds into your back as little droplets. You have to adjust the shower head because you have an impossibly short girlfriend who likes to shower at night. You don't ask why you just assume it's because she is always nose-deep in her newest book to remember she needs to shower once and a while. After you're thoroughly cleaned with a laugh or two here and there because you've remembered the weekend and you want to go back, you get out just in time to hear a second alarm's shrill ring in the master bedroom.

With a toothbrush in hand, you peek your large frame out from the bathroom to see your tiny partner slowly rise from her slumber. She's yawning and rubbing her eyes just when the morning light tries to force its way through the master bedroom curtains. The light that manages to peek through the gap between the curtains frames her perfectly, and despite her drowsy state, you're grateful this perfect being chose you.

You let out one of your softer signature laughs at how odd it was to have a morning like this, to wake up with someone like her in your life.

She directs her more alert attention to you and giggles because laughing with a mouth full of foaming toothpaste should be made fun of.

Tuesday nights are pizzas and bad movie night. You like Tuesday nights, especially when it's her night to choose because it's basically a glimpse into her childhood. You wouldn't say you had a bad childhood, you survived. Only hers wasn't stained with back-alleys or recently fired guns. Plus, her selections had a surprising range that always left you guessing.

As you ate your fifth slice of oily pepperoni pizza, you glance over to her laughing at what could easily make the top 10 worst horror movies. Flashes of red highlight her face as a supposed gruesome scene take over the T.V.; even so, you still think her dimples are the cutest. You drape a muscled arm around her cackling body, and tousle her already unruly hair up a bit, just enough for her to look at you. You grasp the back of her head and amidst the unreal screams of terror, you slowly bring her toward you. She can't stop looking at your lips, which is perfect. You're inches away from each other when you suddenly open your mouth filled with chewed pizza! You growl something monstrous and she finally screams a sound worthy of a horror flick. She even jumps from the couch! You can't keep up the act though because you're struggling to stop laughing and you don't want to choke on the pizza resting innocently, yet disgustingly, in your mouth.

She calls you stupid but she's laughing too.

It's about 10:40 when you two decide to hit the hay. You're in mid-yawn when she innocently asks where your cat was. It wasn't weird to have a cat; yours had a scar on its face, plus Lily counted as a masculine name too.

You scratch your belly, not really caring because your cat wasn't a wimp. Not one to hold back, you say exactly what's on your mind. Then, of course, you spend about 15 minutes searching for your cat with her.

When you find him, he's underneath the couch curled up tight. You both try to coax him out, but you're out of kiwis, so you resort to lifting the whole couch. She carefully picks him up and whispers reassurances in Lily's ear, taking him to the master bedroom.

You lower the couch and think, even if Lily was just a cat, she would make a great mother. A glimmer of hope that she would be the mother of your children creeps in, but you quickly berate yourself. You two had only been going out for 2 years, way too early you think. Then you remember you've known each other for 7 years.

Your name on her lips jars you from your musings and you swiftly make your way into the master bedroom, closing the door with a click.

Wednesday means a lunch date; a break from your police work and her teaching. Normally, you eat somewhere close to the high school where she works. Despite having a free period after lunch, she manages to be late. What can you expect? There's a bookstore along her route. Or it's because she takes a route that has a bookstore on it. Another thing you just don't question; not because you don't want to know, but because you like that part of her.

You two settle on a quaint café with outside seating. While she gracefully slides into her seat, your chair scraps loudly as you sit. She giggles because people are looking at you two. She picks up her menu and is already starting to tell you about her day. Her students are progressing nicely even though school's been in session for a month and a half. Apparently, there was a flood coming from the girl's bathroom. Girls really should learn not flush their tampons down the toilet, she surmises. You blanch at the topic but nod nonetheless. Then, she mentions marriage. Well, marriage between her blonde friend and a pyromaniac, but still! It's thrown out there so easily, you almost forget to choke on your saliva. Marriage probably sends a heat wave down your neck because you'd been thinking constantly about it: what the ring would look like, her dress, who the best man would be, the venue, if he was worthy of her- Oh wait, that was an insecurity. Well, those came with marriage, right?

You're only slightly sweating bullets about a topic she's long since passed over when a waiter comes by. As she orders a sandwich/soup combo and you order a burger, fries, and a panini, you realize once again how opposite you two were. Differences were fine, it's what you drew you to her. She was squishy and you were sharp; there was a balance, but when you think of marriage, doubt was bound to creep in.

She must have noticed your unusual silence because she asks you if anything new had developed in the case you're working on. It's a silent plea to talk to her and you oblige with a weak laugh. You slump forwards a little because this topic wasn't the best either. You start talking about how you hadn't found anymore leads on finding two runaway foster kids. You have your reservations about catching them, though, because you know they'll just be put back into the system. After being a part of that system for too long, the kid in you understands why they'd run away, but the police in you knows they'll get into some serious trouble if they're surviving on the "kindness of strangers."

She looks at you with furrowed eyebrows, clearly worried for the two 12-year-olds, but lets it go as you run your hands furiously against your face.

She puts a warm hand on top of one of yours and asks if anything else happened at work. You're grateful for the chance to change topics. Hell, you're grateful for her.

You look down at her impossibly small hand that rested reassuringly on yours and you realize once again how opposite you two were. Then you think, to hell with it.

With a flick of a wrist, her hand rested in yours. You gave it a quick squeeze then leaned back into your metal chair with a malicious grin.

You recounted how this one rookie looked like he was about to piss his pants because you confronted him about filing evidence wrong. He hadn't, you assured her with a teasing grin, it was just initiation.

Thursday afternoons usually meant you working on a car or two at your Old Man's Garage while she sat and read to you. It didn't matter what she read, you just liked to hear her talk when you worked.

However, this Thursday was different. You've asked the newly engaged Blondie to distract your Shrimp with a bookstore visit while you ask your Dad for a favor.

Your Old Man is gruff and as tough as nails, but nothing was funnier than watching his face curl into a look of disbelief. You smile a fanged grin, because yes, you were actually going to ask her. Your Old Man slaps your broad back and returns your fanged grin with one of his own. Then you both sit down at the large oak dining table that's been in your family for generations and start sketching out ring designs.

Friday nights usually means a wild night with friends, but this time, it's a quiet night in with a candlelit dinner.

You're cooking.

The door to your shared apartment clicks open and shut. Just in time too. She's in the middle of a rant about two knuckleheads who don't know when to quit bugging her when she stops, astounded at the white cloth underneath an intricate dining set. You stand awkwardly to the side in a white suit that belongs to your dad, trying your best to look confident. You greet her with a simple, "yo," knowing anything else would be way to cheesy. She glides dainty hands along the table before sitting in the offered chair. She doesn't say anything; you know the gears are working hard in that big brain of hers. You grin slightly because, of course, she was too quick to not know what you were about to do. There's a deep intake of a breath as you bend down to one knee.

Saturday is a late wake-up call, old cartoons, and cereal. Only today, you two stay in bed longer than normal. Light overwhelms the master bedroom and catches the small diamond perched on a metal band. She's all giggles as she cuddles against you, gazing at the jewel. It was small and precious, just like her.

She swings a leg over your stomach to straddle you, then bends down to press open-mouthed kisses along your neck, jaw, eyes, nose, then finally your lips. You two touch for a single moment then bound forward to meet more. Lips seamlessly mold together over and over again. Your hands act as if they have a mind of their own as they tightly grasp her bare thighs, tugging her down so you can tower over her petite form. She's giggling again as she wraps her arms around your neck and plays with the hair at the nape of your neck. Sly hands run up along her sides before sliding underneath a shirt that looks more like yours than hers to porcelain skin. Your fingers graze the underside of her breasts when a small lump of fur makes its way to the top of the bed and mews. You groan at what a cock block your own cat was, but she's laughing so you'll let it slide.

Sunday was the last day of the week. You can't even remember what you used to do before you proposed. All you can focus on are the loud cries of 'congratulations!' resounding from Fairy Tail. You sit at the bar with the Master and chuckle behind your pint as Fairy Tail swarms your little fiancé.

Fiancé. Your eyes lower at the new world of prospects that accompany that word. A family. Happiness.

You chuckle again and take a chug of your beer.


End file.
